


in winter it's a marshmallow world

by heyfightme



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Christmas, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Gift Giving, Hanukkah, Holidays, M/M, Neighbors, Snowed In, Strangers to Lovers, Winter, belated holiday fics, it's still winter somewhere right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfightme/pseuds/heyfightme
Summary: "Well, the storm's set in early," Bittle intones, hints of bitterness and irony around the observation. "I'm sorry, Jack. This is all on me."It's barely left his mouth before Jack is firmly shaking his head."I should've kept an eye on the weather. And the time." He coughs dryly, sparing a final look out at the blizzard before looking down to Bittle with a tentative smirk. "Good thing you've got that empty room now, eh?"A collection of winter and/or holiday-inspired oneshots, featuring Jack and Bitty, and a few tried-and-tested tropes. Fluffier than a snowdrift, and sweeter than hot cocoa.





	1. what do i care how much it may storm?

**Author's Note:**

> These all come from prompts on tumblr, which I received quite a few of and tried to commit to, but never managed to get past four. I'm still quite happy with how these turned out, so despite the holiday season being a semi-distant memory and the thaw setting in for the Northern Hemisphere, I thought I'd post them anyway. Maybe they'll revive some of that holiday cheer!
> 
> I hope you enjoy them, and they warm you up a little bit. Happy Winter!

 

> The snow is snowing and the wind is blowing  
>  But I will weather the storm  
>  **What do I care how much it may storm?**  
>  I've got my love to keep me warm.
> 
> \- Ella Fitzgerald,  _[I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJdfSXlB_8I)_

 

* * *

 

> **@omgcheckplease**  
>  Surprising your BF like. 

* * *

 

 

The bars on Bitty’s phone are jumping between _dial up speed_ and _you’re joking, right?_ and surely if he were to throw himself onto the train tracks, St. Peter wouldn’t have a thing to say about it.

 

On a clear afternoon, Jack’s apartment complex is barely a fifteen-minute walk from the train station – a walk that Bitty quite enjoys, seeing as it passes over the river and past a bakery-come-café that always has fudge which Jack says reminds him of the stuff back home. That’s when Bitty can stroll in a leisurely, yet determined way, smiling at all passers-by and enjoying the crispness of the afternoon air. That’s when his cheeks aren’t raw from windburn, when there is no flurry of snow obstructing anything farther than a foot in front of his face, and when his train hasn’t been delayed enough to put him in Providence well after sunset.

 

The tears don’t even well in his eyes; they freeze in the ducts.

 

Bitty holds his phone like an antenna, willing a signal into existence with which to summon a Lyft to whisk him to his boyfriend. A bar fills in, he lets out a satisfied yell, and the screen fills suddenly with Jack’s sleepy smile. Bitty scrambles to answer.

“Honey!”  
“Tell me you didn’t go to the airport.”

Bitty casts a look out at the taxi rank; the deserted street; the snow steadily building on the road.  
“I didn’t go to the airport.”

Jack lets out a sigh, and mutters something deep and low which Bitty misses entirely.

“They’ve cancelled all flights out of Boston. But you probably, ah – you probably know that, seeing as you didn’t go.” There’s a tremble in his voice, just barely, and Jack seems to hear it too because he forces out a cough. “The roads are pretty much at a standstill; you’d be stuck there until the storm passed.”

Bitty titters a poor imitation of a laugh. “Oh sugar, I promise I didn’t go to the airport. I’m, ah – just trying to get a Lyft. Home.” His frostbitten brain is operating at half-capacity, and the white lies grind out like a dull knife through a butternut squash: jerkily, and hard-pressed.

 

He’s met with silence. It stretches long enough that the signal may well have dropped out entirely. Bitty pulls the phone from his face to check, but the call is definitely still in service.

“Jack?”  
“You’re outside? In the storm?” Jack’s words are flat and blunt objects that settle in Bitty’s stomach.

“You know, it’s not even that bad here.” The wind picks up. His nose feels white-hot, like he pressed it to the griddle and singed all his flesh away.

“The news says the entire northeast is getting snowed under. _Why_ would you leave –”

“I’m _fine_. I’ll be home in ten minutes, I swear, I just needed to grab some – uh. Syrup.”

Jack makes a noise like a grunt, gruff and touching on upset, and if Bitty weren’t the one out in a blizzard getting his extremities turned to popsicles, he might feel some twinge of guilt.

 

“Listen, sweetheart, I need to hang up and get a ride while I’ve got bars.”

“You haven’t booked one yet? _Bits_ , come on, you need to be –”

“Jack, it’s fine. Just let me get a car, and I’ll call you back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Jack makes another wordless sound, something of a hum that carries a note of distress and leaves Bitty hesitating. The surprise of turning up at Jack’s door surely isn’t worth this worry. He sucks in a chilled breath.

“I’ll call you right back,” he promises, and promptly ends the call to hunt down a car. Thankfully, there is a Ford Fiesta willing to take him, and it’s only three minutes away.

 

Jack picks up the call barely after one ring.

“Did you get a car? Because if not, go back in the store and I’ll –”

“ _Shh_ , honey. You’re going to drive to Samwell in a blizzard on Christmas Eve? I don’t think so, mister. My ride’s nearly here. Fix yourself a hot drink and relax. You shouldn’t have to spend your holiday worrying ‘bout little old me.”

“What the hell else would I be doing?” Jack sounds, finally, like he’s feeling some relief. There’s an unmistakable fondness in his voice, though it is slightly muffled, as though he’s rubbing his mouth. Bitty can picture him perfectly: lights low, TV running the news in the background, Jack in thick, warm sweats and his hair sticking up from nervous hands. The embers of heat in Bitty’s chest flare, and he smiles into the phone.

“You should be putting your feet up and watching something festive. Have some cocoa. It’s just a shame you’ve already eaten all those gingerbread reindeer I sent you.”

 

Bitty has to shield his eyes as a pair of headlights glare out of the swirling whiteness, though the crunching of the car’s wheels are lost to the wind.

“Jack, my ride’s here.” Phone tucked into his chest, Bitty eases open the back door. “Hello! Thank you so much; this weather’s a bit wild, isn’t it? Is my bag okay in the back seat?”

The driver nods to him with a warm smile.

“I’m just on a call. Do you mind if I --?”

“Not at all.” She pulls the car from the curb, and Bitty presses his phone back to his ear, clicking seatbelt into place and settling back against the warm leather of the seat.

“Honey, I’m in the car.”

“Stay on the phone,” Jack warns, and Bitty huffs out a laugh in response. He meets the driver’s smirk in the rearview mirror, and rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Would you like a play-by-play of the drive? Well, it’s good and toasty in here. We’re about the only ones on the road… oh, the river’s all froze over. Goodness, but it’s quiet out there.”

 

Jack’s answering sigh is unexpectedly heavy.

“Bud, I’m sorry you couldn’t get home for Christmas.” He says it low and gravelly, careful and caring in a way that makes Bitty’s cheeks, finally, heat.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“I should come up there. It might take a little longer than normal to drive, but you shouldn’t be alone. Everyone else has gone to their families, you’re in that empty Haus. Shit, Bits, I – I’m so sorry.”

“You shush now. It’s not as bad as all that. And not like either of us can control the weather. Besides, just a few minutes, and I’ll get to be looking at your handsome face.”

Jack hums softly. “I really should come up there.”

“Don’t go _anywhere_ ,” Bitty blurts out, spike of panic flaring in the back of his neck. “I’m nearly home. I’m practically on the doorstep, listen – I’ll Skype you in a moment. I’m pulling up to the curb right now. Please don’t go out in this, Jack. Please don’t.”

 

The driver has, indeed, pulled up in front of Jack’s building, and has turned in her seat to watch Bitty, brow pulled into a concerned frown. Bitty grimaces at her. One the phone, Jack is silent.

“Honey, just give me two minutes. I’ll go inside, and I’ll Skype you. _Please_ don’t go out.”

“Alright. Fine, Bits. Two minutes.” He sounds reluctant, and Bitty doesn’t trust a single word of it.

“Two minutes,” he pleads, and hangs up. The smile he gives to the driver is strained. “I’m sorry you had to listen to that!”

“It’s not a problem. He’s not going out, is he? The radio said it’s just going to get worse.”

“He won’t,” Bitty promises, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder to ready himself for the dash across the footpath to Jack’s building. “He’ll have me to answer to if he tries.”

The driver’s nose wrinkles through a laugh. “Well, Merry Christmas Eve. You stay warm, now.”

Bitty thanks her, and eases the door open to tumble out into the storm.

 

Even with only a moment in the wind, the heat of the building’s lobby is welcome and comforting. Face tucked into his scarf as he waits for the elevator, Bitty breathes long and deep and tries to slow the rabbiting of his heart.

 

The elevator dings, and the doors open, but Bitty can’t step inside. He can’t step inside, because there is a man blocking his path – a man wearing little more than sweats and a hoodie, a knitted beanie jammed haphazardly onto his head and weather-inappropriate sneakers on his feet. His cheekbones are flushed red, he has a set of car keys in his hand, and he is bouncing on his toes with an urgency that makes Bitty take a step back and drop his bag to the ground.

 

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you had better not be intending to drive anywhere in this weather.”

 

Jack’s eyes widen, impossibly. His entire body seems to lock up, as glaringly still as a mannequin, unmoving stone until, abruptly, he moves all at once.

 

He breathes out Bitty’s name, urgent and raw, and reaches out to pull Bitty against him, all the while surging forward himself. He wraps arms around Bitty’s body so tightly and fiercely that they sway together on the spot. Bitty encircles Jack’s waist, and clings back, just as fervent.

“You’re here,” Jack murmurs into his hair, reverence in his tone.

“Surprise,” Bitty mutters back against Jack’s chest, it coming as a slightly brittle sing-song. Jack chuckles back, the laugh vibrating against Bitty’s cheek and rumbling deep in his ear.

“I can’t believe you. And you call _me_ ridiculous. Jesus, Bits, your flight getting cancelled doesn’t mean you just go out in a blizzard to come here.”

Bitty pulls back, just enough to look up into Jack’s face, still keeping his arms locked around Jack’s waist.

“My flight didn’t get cancelled. There never was a flight. I was trying to surprise you for Christmas, you tree.”

 

Jack’s lips part and his eyebrows raise, but Bitty barely has a second to appreciate this look of surprise before Jack is ducking down and pressing their mouths together. There’s no finesse to the kisses he gives in that moment, simple jubilant smacks of his lips that he leaves on Bitty’s smile, and his cheeks, and his forehead as he doubles his grip on Bitty’s torso and lifts him into the air so their faces are level. Bitty giggles with no hope of stopping, with Jack muttering “thank you” and “you’re so great” and “I love you” between every kiss.

“Quit it, you big lug. Put me down and let me get my bag. I have plans.”

 

The plans involve marshmallows, and spiced cookies, and the carefully-wrapped gift nestled under his house socks in his luggage. They involve the soft red blanket Bitty knows Jack has in in closet, and old black-and-white holiday movies, and more kisses – ginger-flavored ones.

 

Jack grins at him, and sets his feet on the ground again, and stoops to hoist up the bag before Bitty can grab it. He slings his other arm around Bitty’s shoulders, and presses one more kiss to his hair.

“Let’s get you in the warm, eh? Your face is like ice.”

 


	2. a turkey and some mistletoe

 

> Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,  
>  Jack Frost nipping at your nose,  
>  Yule-tide carols being sung by a choir,  
>  And folks dressed up like Eskimos. 

> Everybody knows **a turkey and some mistletoe**  
>  Help to make the season bright.  
> Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow  
> Will find it hard to sleep tonight.

> \- Nat King Cole,  _[The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas to You)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwacxSnc4tI)_

 

* * *

 

The acrid scent of burning food is not unfamiliar to Jack. It especially wouldn’t be remiss on Christmas Day, if his mom were the one doing the cooking. Though when he opens his apartment door, duffle slung over his shoulder and plane ticket tucked in his pocket, the concentrated smell of over-charred vegetables is so strong it almost bowls him over. The fact that the smell is accompanied by a furious string of shouted swearing – it’s enough to get Jack knocking on his neighbour’s door.

 

He hovers a few moments without an answer, and is about to turn away and mind his own business when a particularly loud “oh, just fuck me raw, why don’t you?” sounds from within.

 

It gets Jack frowning at the door, and knocking again, a fraction tentative. This time, it’s barely a second before the door is flung open to reveal a man who Jack has seen around the building before, though never like this. Usually, Jack admires him from afar and accepts his cheery waves with strained smiles. He keeps hours almost as odd as Jack’s; it’s not uncommon to see him in the building lobby after a game, also just getting home, or else up in the early hours of the morning when Jack leaves for a run. Jack knows him only as ‘4B’, and has fixated on the cut of his shorts more than once.

 

Now, though, he barely resembles his usually put-together and coiffed self: his hair is an angry tousle, his cheeks are flamingly red, and the skin under his eyes is puffy and damp-looking. The apron he wears has a violent streak of red across it, and the spatula in his hand is smeared with something black.

 

Jack retreats a single step.

 

“Yes?”

“Sorry. I, uh –” Jack cuts himself off, mouth suddenly dry and all intended words flown from his brain. After too many seconds of blinking dumbly at 4B, and getting a wild yet expectant look in response, he finally grits out, “Are you alright?”

4B’s eyes gloss over in tears with startling speed. Jack finds himself ineptly reaching out, hand fluttering with intended comfort towards 4B’s waist, before he gets a reign on himself and yanks it back.

“I’m sorry about the shouting. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone. I’ll try to quieten down.”

“No, it’s – I mean, do you –?” Jack’s traitorous feet shuffle him forward, just slightly, and the words keep coming out of his mouth despite the terse voice in the back of his mind telling him to _mind his own business_. “I smelled burning. I just wanted to – are you sure you’re okay?”

4B’s bottom lip wobbles threateningly, and he drags his teeth over it in an obvious attempt to calm down. Jack is expecting the tears to fall any minute, and is almost readying himself to wrap arms around 4B’s shoulders and hug him until he stops crying, but then 4B grates out “It’s the _fucking potatoes_.” He bristles with rage before Jack’s very eyes.

 

“Oh. Well.” Jack looks down the hall. His flight to Montréal is in three hours. He’d organised to arrive in enough time that he could help his dad prepare the turkey, but not enough that he got roped into an all-day drinking contest with his uncles. He should be in the car, braving the Christmas Day traffic. He turns back to 4B. “I’ve got a trick for those, if you need a hand.”

 

Jack has never been gaped at in this fashion before. Every ounce of anger 4B had been carrying in his frame seems to melt away, replaced by pure dumbstruck surprise. His mouth works soundlessly, eyes wide and eyebrows flow up to his hairline. Eventually, after long enough that Jack feels a prickle of discomfort deep in his gut, the shock folds into an unrestrained smile.

“You want to help with my potatoes?” His brow arches in a way that hints at irony, though Jack is patently missing the joke. He manages a weak grimace in return.

“Yeah. I mean, if you want – uh, if you want a hand, I can sort them out for you.”

“ _Well._ Mister 4D. Full of surprises, aren’t you?” He finishes off with a trilling laugh, and steps aside to welcome Jack into his apartment.

 

The burnt odour is stronger, and there is a smoky haze in the air that further suggests that potatoes are, indeed, cinders. The apartment, however, is homey-looking – although much smaller than Jack’s, it is more carefully decorated and actually brightened with festive additions. There is even a small tree in the corner of the main room, and familiar holiday music playing through the television.

 

4B leads Jack towards the kitchenette, where a tray of truly blackened potatoes rests on the cooktop. Jack hums sympathetically.

“ _I know_. I put them in for the first roast, and thought I’d just call up my mama to check some things, and next minute the conversation is _way_ off track and they’re smoking like a bum firecracker.” 4B folds his arms and directs a glare at the potatoes that, in Jack’s estimation, contains all the power to set them on fire again.

 

“I’m Jack.” He can’t think of anything else to say. A second too late, he also sticks out his hand in greeting. When 4B looks over, his smirk re-introduces itself to his mouth.

“I know that.” He shakes Jack’s hand, and his eyes are just so deeply brown. “I’m Eric. Though if you’re going to be working in my kitchen today, Jack Zimmermann, you can call me Bitty.”

 

Jack’s duffle gets set by the couch, and his jacket gets tossed over the back of a chair, and soon his sleeves are rolled up and he is peeling a mountain of potatoes.

 

“I was going to have different kinds, because everyone’s just so darn _picky_ – Nursey needs his tots, and Chowder only likes mash, and Holster has just been going _on and on_ about his bubbe’s latkes – and anyway, I wanted to try these goose fat ones with the crispy outsides, and it’s my stupid apartment, isn’t it? Apparently it’s not enough that I open up my home to my useless orphaned friends, I have to act as everyone’s Moo Maw and make their perfect holiday dinner. It’s not _my_ fault their families are too far away or – or have gone to Bermuda for the season, or they couldn’t get a flight home, or… or weren’t _wanted_.” Bitty’s voice cracks on the last word, and when Jack whips his head around, he finds Bitty has stopped stirring his cranberries and has pressed the back of his wrist to his eyes. Jack sucks in a breath and sets down the peeler.

 

“Buddy,” he murmurs, and given he’s been invited in and is helping the guy cook, doesn’t feel he’s overstepping a boundary by laying a hand on Bitty’s shoulder.

“Bitty.” He sniffs and takes his wrist from his eyes, looking up to Jack with a watery smile. “It’s Bitty.”

Jack blinks. “Uh, no, I was – I mean, like. Buddy?”

Bitty stares at him, eyelashes fluttering in confusion before he utters a long, drawn-out _oh_ and his cheeks flush impossibly pinker.

“Lord, listen to me. You don’t have to listen to my sob story – layin’ my problems on you like you don’t have your own worries! And on a holiday, no less. When I told Shitty who was across the hall from me, he said, ‘you’re going to be held responsible for the Falcs losing if you keep him up with your music.’ Well, he didn’t say _exactly_ that, but you get my drift. And you probably just want to relax and all, and gear up for your next game, and here I am cryin’ all over you and making you peel my potatoes. I’m sorry. I’m ridiculous. You can go.”

 

The sheer range of emotions that Bitty has exhibited in the twenty minutes since he opened his door should be overwhelming. It should be making Jack want to bolt out the door and run all the way to the airport. It should be making Jack himself feel something that isn’t this roiling warmth deep in his belly.

 

Hand still lain on Bitty’s shoulder, Jack rubs at the jut of bone there with his thumb.

“I don’t mind. I’ve got time.” He smiles, and it feels soft around his mouth. “I’ll keep peeling, and you can keep talking if you want. I might not have much to say, but I can… listen.”

Bitty bites into his lip again, and seeing as the tears seem long-gone, Jack feels few qualms about watching it come away from his teeth pinked and slightly shiny.

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Despite himself, Jack huffs a laugh.

“That’s a bit on the nose, eh? Being, uh – where are you from?” He trails away from Bitty and back to the potatoes, throwing him one final interested look before picking up the peeler again.

“Georgia.” Bitty says it broad and long, pulling his accent to a drawl and finishing with a dry laugh. Another glance shows he’s gone back to stirring the cranberries. “Which is where I’m decidedly _not_ , this Christmas, it being that some people just don’t seem to understand why it’s so exhausting to answer ‘why haven’t your brought home some nice girl?’ ‘till you’re hoarse.” The edge is back in his tone, and Jack hums as sympathetically as he can. It’s the only noise he trusts himself to make, because assumptions are all well and good, but Bitty not having a girlfriend to take home seems a little more like confirmation.

 

“And I explained to her, I did. I _told_ her I have to work tomorrow – that wasn’t a lie. It’s hard to get off this time of year. I said to her, ‘y’know, mama, not all folks can make their own maple ham and pecan tassies, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that.’ I’m a _caterer_. The holidays are my _time_.”

“You’re a caterer?”

Bitty turns off the burner and offers a lofty “yes” in reply, but seems to be determinedly avoiding Jack’s gaze.

“You cook for a living, and you burnt your potatoes?”

“Okay, yes, _ha ha_. Laugh it up, Mister I-Think-Protein-Shakes-Are-A-Food-Group. Don’t think I haven’t seen you in the mornings, one of those grey monstrosities in your hand every day. Water and powder does not a balanced breakfast make, Jack. You finished up with your peeling yet?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should leave this to the professional, actually.”

Bitty scoffs, making quick work of pouring his thickened cranberry sauce into a waiting mason jar.

“You think you’re real cute, huh?”

“I’m hoping you think so too.”

 

Bitty doesn’t turn, but he does incline his head slightly. Jack has a feeling he’s being regarded through Bitty’s peripheral vision; he freezes, and lets the pressure of shame build in his face.

“Sorry. That was. Uh. I swear I didn’t come in here to hit on you.”

“Oh, _that’s_ what that was? I thought it was just fishin’ for compliments.” Bitty’s voice has gone high and slightly strained. He clears his throat, and screws the lid on his jar of cranberry sauce. “I do think so, for the record. You think I just wave at everyone in the building?”

Jack swallows. For some reason, his mouth has gone dry. “I thought you were just being polite.”

“My manners only stretch so far at five a.m.”

Jack’s entire body feels hot.

“You, uh. You.” The sudden invitation with which Jack has been gifted, the confirmation and the clear return of his attraction, make his tongue stick in his throat. Now that he’s been given the permission, action seems an unreachable thing.

 

It’s a saving grace, and somehow also inopportune, when Jack’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and spares it a glance – a message from his mother, pleading with him not to miss his flight, and to come and save her from his dad’s regression to locker room bravado over the turkey. He pockets it again, coughs, and sets the potato peeler down.

 

“I’ve finished with these.”

“Oh.”

“And, uh. I have a flight to catch.”

“ _Oh._ ”

 “And I might not see you at five a.m. tomorrow, but – how about when you get off work?”

Bitty turns his face slightly, eyeing Jack more obviously, cheeks pushing out with a smile. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to some company for a dinner of Christmas leftovers. That is, if the animals I call friends don’t finish it all off today.”

“Call it a date, then.”

“Okay, Jack. It’s a date.”

 

Jack does leave for the airport, but only after adding a new phone number to his phone – Eric ‘Bitty’ Bittle, formerly known as 4B – and learning the feel of Bitty’s cheek beneath his lips.

 

He thinks, tomorrow, there will be another new feeling for his lips to learn.

 


	3. cards and ribbons everywhere

 

 

> Cookies baking in the kitchen,  
>  **Cards and ribbons everywhere** ,  
>  Frosty Christmas memories  
>  Float like snowflakes in the air. 

> \- Frank Sinatra,  _[Christmas Memories](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HT8Lfr1R36g)_

* * *

 

Seeing the presents under the tree, a modest pile of mid-sized boxes, all wrapped identically – by one of Lardo’s art friends, an impartial party selected to eliminate the giveaway of preschooler wrapping skills – Bitty goes over all cold from head to toe. Lardo’s friend, on seeing the gift Bitty had brought them to be wrapped, had reacted with a startled “oh!” and comically raised eyebrows. Now, with the visual comparison between the gifts his teammates had selected for each other, and the one he had gotten for his own Secret Santa, the shock seems apt.

 

Bitty’s gift is, firstly, large. It comes in two parts. And it’s definitely not an in-joke or an NHL beanie or a gift card.

 

Bitty’s gift had required sneaking into Jack’s room when he was out for a run, and rooting through his draws like a badger. It had required the petty theft of an SD card. It had required negotiating with one of Lardo’s other art friends for help with the photography department printers, which had put him out of a few jars of special-made almond butter and an IOU for vegan brownies. It had required hunting down coupons for a framing store in Boston, and even then scrimping together what he could to get clean mounting and proper backing, as per the vegan photographer’s advice.

 

The result is, in Bitty’s eye, striking: the stark black lines of Faber’s window frames, the morning sunlight near white, the sparkling details of motes in the air. To anyone else, maybe they would seem unfeeling and sterile. To Bitty, though, they bleed passion. They are tender, and pre-emptively nostalgic, and filled with the fierce clarity Jack always brings to the rink.

 

They might not fit under the tree. He should’ve gotten socks instead.

 

Bitty re-adjusts his hold on the present, paper crinkling mockingly under his fingers, and turns on his heel to hoist it back up to his room.

 

The wrapped frames sit on his bed, coated in desperation. He may as well have written ‘ _To Jack, I love you in every kind of way and would give my right arm for you to love me back’_ in the card. There’s no conceivable way he can give the gift to Jack as is, and survive his own shame afterwards.

“Eric Richard Bittle, y’ain’t got the sense your mama gave you.”

 

He could figure out what to do with the photos later. For now, though, he has only a few hours to find a suitable replacement that will generate minimal embarrassment. Tugging on his coat and swinging his satchel over his shoulder, Bitty wrenches open his bedroom door – and near collides with a person standing on the other side.

“Jack!”

The undisguised shock on Jack’s face seems fit for if Bitty were the one lurking outside his door, and not the other way around.

 

“What’re you haunting my doorway for? I could’ve knocked you over.”

“Sure, Bittle. You’ve definitely got physics on your side.”

Bitty narrows his eyes. “Did you come here just to chirp me, or do you actually want something? Because I’ve got an errand –”

“Can it wait? Just – ah, I won’t keep you long, I just want to… can I come in?”

Unbidden, Bitty jerks his head back over his shoulder. The stupid, revealing gift still sits on his bed, traitorous and obvious. It’s not labelled, though. He could lie.

“Um. Sure thing. As long as it’s not… I do have an errand.”

“Not long,” Jack promises, serious as he ever is, and he’s being so grim that Bitty feels a swoop of hysteria in his ribcage. The laughter, thankfully, stays at bay.

 

He steps aside to let Jack in, and raises a questioning eyebrow with a gesture to the door.

“Closed,” Jack mutters. The “please” follows almost as an afterthought, but carries a distinct pleading edge. Worry trails along the hairs on the back of Bitty’s neck.

“Sweet– Jack. Jack, are you alright?”

“Euh.” He doesn’t add anything, just brandishes what he had been holding at his side: a rectangular package, wrapped in the same paper as the frames on Bitty’s bed.

“We’re doing Secret Santa tonight,” Bitty says dumbly.

 

“I know.” Jack isn’t looking at him, eyes fixed instead on the package in his hand with a kind of disbelieving horror. “I know I’m wrecking the game, I just… I couldn’t give you this in front of everyone.”

“Couldn’t?”

“Didn’t want to.” He visibly swallows, and Bitty finally gets his own hands working; he reaches out to take the gift, but Jack stays holding on to it. “It’s stupid.”

“Can’t be any stupider than what any of the boys got each other,” Bitty tries, but his voice is completely lacking any of his intended humor. It’s flat, and trembling, and when Jack lets go of the present, Bitty’s hand shakes as well.

 

What’s underneath the paper feels hard, and the package itself is blandly rectangular. It feels deceptively heavy, and it doesn’t rattle when he shifts to hold it with both hands.

“Thank you, Jack. This is so kind of you.” It comes out mechanical and rote, and makes Jack smile, wry and small.

“You haven’t even opened it yet.”

“Right. Yes. Opening it.”

 

Bitty has never torn paper in his life, and he doesn’t intend to start now, no matter how fast his heart is beating in his chest. He uses careful fingers to prize the tape from the paper, which falls away in a quiet rustle to reveal a book. It is cloth-covered, a deep and vibrant red, and hard-backed, and bears nothing on the cover except for a single word, stamped in white: _recipes_.

“Oh.” The sound comes as a breath, forced out with a flutter of Bitty’s diaphragm. “It’s lovely, Jack. Thank you so much.”

“It’s got… inside, there’s…” Jack gestures vaguely to the book, face impassive and almost stony, then slides his hand back into his pocket. His posture is still stiff; he is holding himself at the very edge of some precipice. Bitty flicks him a smile, more grimace than intended reassurance, and runs his fingertips over the lettering on the cover.

 

The book opens easily, with no crinkle of new binding. The first page of snow-white paper is inscribed not with type, but with handwriting. As the title of the book would suggest, it’s a recipe; a recipe for apple dapple cake. The ingredients are familiar – expected, seeing as it’s a cake that Bitty has made a hundred times over.

“This is just like Moo Maw’s recipe.” He runs eyes over the list, catching on one in particular. “This is _exactly_ her recipe. I don’t know if I’ve met anyone else in all the world who puts cardamom in their apple dapple.”

“It is. Her recipe, I mean.”

 

Bitty looks up, feeling his brow crinkling with his confusion, and finds Jack is watching him with a gentle smile.

“Where did you get this?”  
“I talked to your mom. I just wanted around five recipes to put in there, but when I told her what it was for she talked to your grandma and they put together a whole lot. I, uh, didn’t say it was just me. I said we… y’know. The team.” He clears his throat and averts his eyes, mouth setting firm again. “I hope it’s okay. I just thought, because you said – you were talking about how it’d be nice to have everything documented somewhere.” He finishes with a shrug, hands burrowing deeper into his pockets, and still determinedly avoiding Bitty’s gaze.

 

“You made this?” It’s a whisper, hushed and cautious, because some distant part of Bitty is terrified of scaring Jack away. Of Jack looking up and realizing Bitty wasn’t worth the trouble, and taking the book back.

“Well, I… I had it made, put it that way. You know my handwriting’s shit.”

 

The noise Bitty makes then comes from deep within him, soft though it is: a brief moan of a sigh, as he hugs the book to his chest and tries to ignore the heat flooding in his belly.

“I have something for you too.”

Bitty bites down on his lip following the admission, his misguided intention being to snap the revelation back into his mouth. Jack, though, finally looks up, lips slightly parted and eyes lit with a clear hopefulness. Bitty inclines his chin towards the bed, and Jack turns entirely, obscuring his reaction to the gift lying there.

 

“It’s nothing, really,” Bitty starts as Jack crosses over and reaches to lay a hand on the paper. “Actually, it’s completely – just let me know if you don’t like it, and I’ll get you something else. It was a silly thought. You probably don’t… oh Lord, I’m sorry. It was a bad idea.” He adds this as Jack pulls away the last of the wrapping, staring down at the photograph with unchanging posture. Bitty takes a tentative step towards him.

“This is my photo,” Jack says flatly, with a bare uptick at the end, like it’s a question.

“Yes. I got it from… I took your SD card. So I guess I’m sorry about stealing from you, as well. I only – I don’t know what I was thinking, really, I just wondered if you’d have anything to decorate your fancy new apartment in – um. Wherever it is you end up. And I figured it’d be nice for you to have something to remind you of here, and I know you love Faber, and – well, the photos are so lovely, Jack. You should be proud of them.” He finishes lamely, voice trailing off into a whisper again, quiet and guarded because Jack still hasn’t moved and Bitty’s nerve response isn’t doing him any favors.

 

It’s at this pathetically fragile confession that Jack finally turns. He turns, and his eyes are wide and warm again, and he steps forward and says Bitty’s name, just once. Then, he reaches to wrap solid hands over Bitty’s biceps, and he says his name again.

 

Jack’s palm fits perfectly around the line of Bitty’s jaw, and his fingers fit perfectly into the sway of Bitty’s back, and his lips fit perfectly against the curve of Bitty’s lips.

 

With his own arms still wrapped around the book and trapped between their bodies, there’s little more that Bitty can do than press himself against Jack, tilt his face upward, and kiss back.

 

They trade them softly, Jack grazing his thumb over Bitty’s cheekbone, and Bitty chasing the feeling of his mouth. The racing in his mind, and the stuttering of his heart – it all stops, suspended in the moment, held just as careful as Jack is now stroking Bitty’s hair.

 

Jack starts to smile, humming happily into Bitty’s kisses, and ultimately pulling back. It takes a few seconds for Bitty to catch up, eyes fluttering open slowly and lips still puckered and wanton. When he does come back to himself, Jack is still smiling.

“We ruined Secret Santa,” Bitty tells him.

Jack snorts softly, and shakes his head.

“We can go get team-appropriate gifts, if you want. Didn’t you have an errand to run?”

 


	4. better cuddle up here

 

> I can hear that north wind blowing,  
>  And the fire is oh so warm.  
>  Well, I know you should be going,  
>  But how can I send you out in that storm?
> 
> Baby, its cold out there, and it’s getting colder.  
>  Baby, it’s cold out there, getting colder.  
>  Matter of fact, better cuddle up here;  
>  It’s the coldest night of the year.
> 
> \- Vashti Bunyan,  _[Coldest Night of the Year](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W3ckrDEBS2Q)_

 

* * *

 

 

Bittle’s apartment is a logical pit-stop on Jack’s drive, given their perpetually delayed plans for a holiday coffee and gift-exchange. It’s the last chance they have before the New Year, with Jack heading to Montréal for Christmas and his game schedule in the week following, and Bittle’s parents coming up from Madison for the remainder of the year. With his present for Bittle resting in the passenger seat, Jack takes the I-93 instead of bypassing Boston altogether, and after navigating the city streets in a now-familiar path, manages to clinch a parking space outside Bittle’s building.

 

The temperature gauge in Jack’s dash tells him that the outside has already dropped to thirty-seven degrees. It’s barely two-thirty p.m.: there’s still a long way to go before the storm sets in properly. With any luck, he’ll be clear of the border by the time that happens.

 

Toque pulled down over his ears, and gift nestled under his arm, Jack tucks his face into his collar as best he can to trudge through the footpath slush to the building entrance. Just inside the door, there is a rubber mat, onto which Jack stomps his boots to rid himself of most of the wetness.

 

The building has no elevator, and only one narrow staircase running the full height of the eight floors. As he always does, Jack jogs up the six flights to Bittle’s apartment, and pauses in front of the door. He hadn’t been outside for long, and so can’t be red in the face. He has, however, been wearing his hat since he left Providence; his hair probably isn’t faring very well.

 

A mirror would be helpful.

 

He takes a breath, and knocks. There is music radiating softly from within, then added to by the sound of Bittle’s deadbolt sliding free. At the last moment, Jack reaches up and yanks the hat from his head and run fingers through his hair to stop it from lying flat against his head.

 

“Jack! You made it.”

“Who else would I be?” Jack steps forward into Bittle’s open arms, leaning down a fraction to allow Bittle to hook his chin over his shoulder, and using the arm not carrying the present to encircle Bittle’s shoulders. He breathes in, and the sweet spices of Bittle’s cologne fill his head. “It’s good to see you,” he murmurs, and Bittle chuckles in response and pats him on the back.

“Come inside,” he instructs as he ushers Jack past the threshold, “you must be froze to your core. I’ve been walking around wrapped in a blanket!”

“Bittle. Just turn up your heat.” He hears the fond exasperation in his own voice, and relishes the theatrical eye-roll he gets in return.

“Sure thing, Moneybags. I can’t have Dorothea _and_ the radiator runnin’ at the same time. My gas bill’d be more than my rent. She’s doing her best, though. One pie’s worth of baking time, and she makes the room all toasty too.”

 

The apartment does, indeed, smell the same homey way that Jack is used to: buttery and rich, with the sweetness of whatever fruit Bittle has chosen for filling.

“Smells good,” Jack murmurs, and receives a smile back that is just as toasty as the oven has made the living room. It certainly does the job of warming Jack’s insides; he shrugs out of his coat, and hangs it up on the coatrack that Bittle has had by the door since he moved in. The music playing is low and soulful, something much more classic than Bittle’s usual pop soundtrack.

“I know you can’t stay all too long, but I figured we need to have some pie with our cocoa. It’s not your favourite, but I think you’ll like it just the same.” Always light on his feet, Bittle moves about the kitchenette space with practiced ease, sweeping two plates from a high cupboard and scooping his pie server from a drawer. He gifts Jack with a playful grin as he eases a segment from the pie, and Jack’s stomach, as it always does, flutters happily in response. “Pie and presents. What more do we really need?”

Settling himself on Bittle’s couch, and leaning across to the coffee table to lay out the coasters in preparation for Bittle’s cocoa, Jack clears his throat and asks, “Where are – ah. It’s Jeremy and Malik, eh?”

 

Bittle _tsks_ , pausing in pouring steaming hot chocolate from a saucepan to raise a wry eyebrow in Jack’s direction.

“I don’t know if I told you; they moved to their own place last month. And I’m happy for them, I am, but that still leaves me up shit creek a bit in terms of rent. I can’t find _anyone_ for their room.” He sets the saucepan back on the stove, and slides a waiting rectangular dish from the bench next to it. “Hence, gas preservation. I’m not going to stop baking, but I sure will kill as many birds as I can with my single stone.” From the dish, he plucks out what appear to be chunks of fresh marshmallow, and drops two into each steaming cup. “Do you want cinnamon?”

“No, Bits. That’s great.”

Bittle nods, lips pursing briefly before he collects the mugs in one hand, and the tray bearing both plates of pie in the other, and balances the whole situation over to the coffee table. Jack doesn’t offer help; the only response that would garner would be a snippy “you think I can’t look after my own guests, Jack Zimmermann?” and an under-the-breath, yet still icy, “bless your heart.”

 

Bittle has barely set the food down before he bustles off again, though rather than back to the kitchen, he disappears into one of the doors off the main room. Jack cranes over the back of the couch to call out, “Bittle, come sit down,” and only gets a lofty “won’t be a moment” for his troubles.

 

He returns with a present clad in jewel-red paper, topped with an icy blue bow and serving to make Jack feel a twinge of regret over his own low-effort boxed offering. Finally, Bittle stops moving; he lowers himself facing Jack on the couch, one leg tucked underneath him, and offers the immaculate gift with little preamble.

“Merry Christmas. Or, well, Happy Holidays. Happy Hanukkah. All of it.”

Jack barely contains a laugh, holding out his own present and taking what’s being given with a “Thanks, Bittle. Merry Christmas.”

Bittle accepts the box with a bitten-lip grin, and runs his fingertips over the edges.

“It’s going to be hard waiting for Christmas morning to open this. I just don’t know if I’m that patient.”

“Don’t break the Christmas rules, Bittle. Santa will know.”

He gets a delighted snort in reply, exactly as he wanted, and Bittle leans to set the box on the coffee table and swap it for a plate of pie. Jack follows suit, taking a bite and exaggerating his satisfied moan just to see the pleased flush in the apples of Bittle’s cheeks.

“Enough of that, now. I’ve only got you for an hour. Tell me – what’re the plans for Montreal?”

 

* * *

 

There are only the dregs of cocoa left, and only crumbs of pie crust, when Jack looks out the window and sees only white.

“Shit.”

Bittle follows his line of sight, lands on the same outlook, and emits a thoroughly devastated “Oh, _Lord_.” He’s out of his seat in a second, crossing to peer outside properly and lifting his phone from the table as he goes. A few taps, and his exclamation gets an upgrade: “oh, fuck.”

 

Jack launches to his feet and strides to his side with similar urgency. The street below is very nearly obscured by the thickness of the snowfall. Jack can make out the pattern of wind in the flurry, the white itself moving and swirling with a clear violence. He leans closer to the glass, and can hear the whistling of the gusts eking their ways through slivered gaps in the frame. Not even touching, the cold still radiates.

“Well, the storm’s set in early,” Bittle intones, hints of bitterness and irony around the observation. “I’m sorry, Jack. This is all on me.”

It’s barely left his mouth before Jack is firmly shaking his head.

“I should’ve kept an eye on the weather. And the time.” He coughs dryly, sparing a final look out at the blizzard before looking down to Bittle with a tentative smirk. “Good thing you’ve got that empty room now, eh?”

 

* * *

 

There are no concerns about food: they’re in _Bitty’s_ apartment, not Jack’s, and while he may be slightly lacking in variety of proteins, and dark leafy greens, if there is one thing Bittle has always been able to do, it’s make more out of less.

 

The first way he chooses to do this is by digging a bottle of butterscotch schnapps from the back of the cupboard, and cooing “Join me, Jack” in a way that Jack never has a hope in hell of saying ‘no’ to. He pours them each another cup of cocoa, this time “with all the fixings” – fixings being a generous shot of schnapps in each mug.

“Shitty’ll be sad he missed this reunion,” Jack comments. It’s meant to be light-hearted, but it gets Bittle frowning.

“It sure has been a while.” He’s glaring into is hot chocolate like it has personally wronged him, and though Jack is definitely _not_ a cup of cocoa, he feels a dry lump of guilt form in the back of his throat. He swallows, slow and deliberate, and nudges Bittle in the ribs.

“Hey,” he says after a sip from his mug, “what’s on your menu for Christmas dinner?”

 

There is a run-down of every dish and accompaniment, and an overview of what Bittle is planning for table decorations, and then Bittle re-fills both their cups, with extra schnapps this time. The light outside is starting to fade, so Bittle turns on a lamp that bathes the room in a soft golden glow. There’s also a string of Christmas lights around the window that, when lit, reflect in the glass.

 

Jack calls his mother and makes his apologies – “ _non, maman, je reste avec Bittle_ ” – and deflects her attempts to pry into their sleeping arrangements: she’s several glasses of wine deep, and a tipsy Alicia is always a teasing Alicia. Jack hangs up, and only tells Bittle that his parents send their love.

 

He tells some stories from the Falcs Christmas party, and Bittle laughs at all the appropriate times, and for their fourth drink he decides to experiment with coffee instead of cocoa. Jack has his black and isn’t sure he can taste the butterscotch. The feeling of the previous two drinks, though, is going a little to his head: his arm drapes itself across the back of the couch, hand dangling down to brush at Bittle’s shoulder. Bittle is nursing his drunken coffee, and bemoaning the loss of his roommates.

 

“They’re my friends, and we still get brunch, and Malik likes to come to the farmers market with me, and Jeremy knows the _best_ places for dancing, but…” He takes a sip of his drink, visibly biting back on something.

“But what?” Jack nudges him again, then trips tickling fingers along the side of his neck. Bittle squirms slightly, and throws him an exasperated smile.

“ _Stop_. I was just going to say… I mean, far be it from me to cast stones, but honestly? Fuck them for leaving me in the lurch like this. _Fuck_ them. Fuck them and their new apartment, where they can fuck each other without worrying about me hearing them. Not that that ever stopped them in the first place, mind.”

If Jack were taking a drink, he might have snorted some of the coffee up his nose. As it is, he just sucks in a sharp breath and nearly swallows his own tongue. He coughs a little, but it does barely anything to help the discomfort in his oesophagus.

 

“They…? You heard them? They didn’t care?”

Bittle grunts. It’s by far the most inelegant sound that Jack has ever heard him make; he stares a little.

“It’s not like in the Haus, where you’d hear hookups and – it was just hookups, right? But Malik and Jeremy – they’re in a _relationship_. It was so different. I’d be sitting there, all on my lonesome, and have to listen to them lovin’ on each other.” He takes another brooding sip. “Y’know, maybe that’s why they decided to move after all; my self-pitying wails of sorrow kept destroying their mood.”

“Hey, c’mon Bits,” Jack tries, abandoning all pretense and dropping his arm from the couch to Bittle’s shoulders. “I’m sure it wasn’t you. And you shouldn’t be crying. You’re not alone.”

Bittle sniffs lightly, and settles into Jack’s side as though he were always supposed to fit there. Jack tightens his arm.

“I haven’t had anyone in _so long_ , Jack. Like, a really long time.”

“Longer than a year and a half?” It comes out more bitter than Jack is intending. Bittle pulls back and twists to face Jack, mouth comically round, like a caricature of surprise.

“Jack!” he says, high and cracked. Jack grimaces at him. Bittle slaps a contrite hand over his own mouth, and when he continues, it’s muffled by his fingers. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just… You’re _you_. I guess I just can’t compute you not having girls fall over themselves for you.”

“I’m not interested in any of them.”

“Not interested in any of the girls,” Bittle muses, maybe half to himself. He lowers his hand, and wraps it around his mug, and takes a slow gulp of coffee.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. He watches Bittle’s profile carefully; the light catching in his eyelashes, the upturn of his adorable snub nose, the plush set of his lips. Those lips, their deep pink hue, the way Bittle purses them and bites them and runs his teeth over them, as he is doing right then – they are never far from Jack’s thoughts. It’s probably why the next thing he says is, “Not interested in any of the _girls_ ,” and edges the smallest bit closer on the couch.

 

Bittle’s eyes flick to him, sharp and quick, and then back to his coffee just as smoothly. An interesting shade of pink introduces itself to the fullness of his cheeks, and the very tip of his nose. He digs his teeth into his protruding bottom lip, sets his empty mug on the coffee table, and spreads his newly-free hand across the meat of Jack’s thigh.

“It’s been – oh, it’s been a real long time. I dated some, when I first moved here, but that whole thing only lasted a few months.” He says this while rubbing his thumb in light circles along the seam of Jack’s jeans. For his part, Jack can’t tear his eyes from the movement of Bittle’s mouth as he talks. “Some dry spell, huh?”

 

He turns his face to look at Jack, brows pulling up and lips parting slightly, and his eyes drag obviously and deliberately down Jack’s torso to rest on his lap. The wall of resolve that Jack has spent the past five years building – the entire time he’s known Bittle, really – crumbles in an instant. They are alone, and the world outside is blanketed over, and Bittle is touching him. A tingle of heat starts low in Jack’s gut, and floods rapidly to his face.

“Bits,” he says, and his voice is much deeper than usual. Rough.

Bittle adjusts himself on the couch, bringing both legs up to kneel facing Jack entirely, and slides his hand further up Jack’s leg.

“I’ve always liked it when you called me that,” he murmurs, and his face is very close, and his hand is very warm, and Jack can’t stop looking at his lips.

 

When Bittle kisses him, it’s at odds to the solidity of his touch and the forwardness of his posture. It’s a gentle brush, a sweet thing, there and then gone even as Jack’s eyes flutter closed. Jack tilts his head, searching for more, and the second meeting of their lips pulls a low sound from his throat. He’s almost scared to move, so just stays with his arm thrown back over the couch, knees spread wide and head turned towards Bittle – Bittle, and his careful mouth, and the way he pulls Jack’s bottom lip between his own, and kisses soft like peach skin.

 

Bittle’s free hand – the one not pawing at Jack’s thigh, the one not straying closer and closer to his crotch – cups around Jack’s jaw, angling his head to the point of a twinge in his neck. Jack pulls back enough to breathe, and without pausing to consider the consequences, grips into Bittle’s hips with both hands and tugs until Bittle takes the hint and straddles his lap. The opportunity this gives Jack is to graze his teeth down the lines pulling in Bittle’s neck, and slide his hands around to grope at the swell of his ass.

“Bits,” he groans into Bittle’s jaw, and Bittle replies by sighing in a hitched and breathy way, and grinding his crotch against Jack’s.

 

Bittle clutches at Jack’s face with both hands, their mouths close enough to share breaths, but not touching. His eyes are still closed, and Jack watches in fascination as a small line develops between his brows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He rocks himself against Jack, breath coming in little gasps, and all Jack can do is cling at him and let it happen.

 

He leans forward, intending to kiss some part of Bittle’s cheek, but his own breath is stuttering and he’s lost all finesse that he may have once held. He ends up mouthing Bittle’s cheekbone, and there are words leaving his lips, “you’re so good,” and “fuck,” and Bittle’s name over and over, “Bitty, _Bits_.”

 

It’s a moment to register that between his gasps, Bittle is talking too; quiet murmurs just by Jack’s ear, words stuttered between Bittle’s movements.

“Only once,” he’s saying. “No one will know. Just us, baby.”

Jack tenses.

 

“Shh,” Bittle soothes, still grinding, cradling Jack’s face with a tenderness that wraps barbs around Jack’s ribs. “I promise, no one’s ever gonna find out.”

“What?” Jack’s voice is still hoarse, but in a completely different way. “What?” he asks again, and plants hands on Bittle’s abdomen to push him back slightly. The change is immediate: Bitty drops his hands to his own lap, and shuffles back so he’s settled only on Jack’s thighs, and his face shuts off entirely.

 

At that moment, the power shuts off too, and the room is dimmed to dull evening light. The only illumination, really, is the ghostly glow of the blizzard outside, which lands on Bittle’s face and washes out all the colour there.

 

He blinks, and looks to the window. His expression doesn’t change.

“I should get a flashlight.”

“No,” Jack blurts, and grabs for Bittle’s hands. Bittle still doesn’t look back to him; he just closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I let myself get carried away.”

“You didn’t.”

Bittle just shakes his head, pressing his lips into a hard, white line.

“You didn’t,” Jack insists, encircling Bittle’s wrists and lifting them to hold against his own chest. “Just – what did you mean?”

The breath Bittle sucks in is obviously a steeling one. It’s a good sign, probably, that he doesn’t pull his hands away.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Jack. I just want you to know – I mean, I’ve got your back. You know that. I’m not going to tell anyone. I know this is just…” He trails off with a sharp jerk of his shoulder, and Jack’s stomach lurches.

 

“No, Bits, it’s not – ‘just’. You’re not ‘just’ anything to me. I…” He swallows, but it’s dry and difficult, and Bittle is squeezing his eyes shut. Jack can see wetness at the edges. “If you don’t want this, it’s fine. You don’t have to – I’m sorry. Bits, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“Don’t apologise. Don’t.” Bittle can be harsh, and there is an edge to the demand, but it’s still fractured. It’s still sad. Finally, he turns his face back to Jack’s and opens his eyes. They’re dark, and somehow also bright, and blazing. “I was being selfish, and taking what I could get.”

“You can have it all,” Jack confesses, hearing it himself almost as though it’s coming from someone else. Even with Bittle in his lap, even with Bittle’s hands now spread on his chest, even with the solid warmth of him and the earthiness of Bittle’s cologne in his lungs, Jack still has the fluid feeling of being in a dream. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

 

Bittle strokes at his chest, and smiles with a wistful tint.

“I want too much, though.”

All of Jack’s words dry up. He can’t find the phrases he needs, can’t find any of the sweet nothings or loving declarations that would make his intentions known. Without verbal communication, Jack does what he always does: he acts. He leans into Bittle’s space again, joining their lips again, still clasping Bittle’s hands to where his heart is beating. Jack kisses, and kisses, and kisses again, and Bittle makes a thin moan and reciprocates with clear hesitation.

 

He murmurs “okay” against Jack’s lips, and finally finding the words, Jack murmurs “I love you” back. The next sound Bittle makes is an unambiguous sob. He presses their foreheads together, and drags in a wet-sounding breath, and says “What?”

 

Now that Jack’s said it once, it’s easy to say again.

“I love you,” he repeats, firmer and clearer.

Bittle is silent for what feels like a long time, and then he sniffs and licks his lips before asking, “Do you?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think – yeah, Bits. I do.”

Bittle breathes. “Alright,” he says. “You love me. You _love_ me.” Then, he bursts out with a damp little giggle, leaning back and pulling his hand from Jack’s chest to cover his mouth. His smile, though, Jack can still see in his eyes. “Oh Lord, you’re not just – this isn’t –” He breaks off with another giddy laugh, curling fingers of the hand still touching Jack into his collar. He shakes it a little, drawing his other hand away from his mouth again and flitting soft fingertips over Jack’s cheekbone.

 

“I should’ve done something, sooner,” Jack mutters, fitting untethered hands over Bittle’s hips, holding him there and willing him to never leave. “It was… self-preservation, I think. I couldn’t – not while I was your Captain, and then I just… missed the chance.”

“Until Mother Nature intervened,” Bittle comments, almost gravely, still tracing Jack’s face as though he’s never seen it before. “I figured after maybe the fifth guy I tried dating, or the seventh, that I was still too hung up to be having any fun with anyone else.”

“Hung up?” Jack echoes.

“I thought when my best friend graduated, that’d be enough space. But there kept being these _looks_ , and these _touches_ , and I know him so well. He just needed the right time. So anything with any other boy could only be casual, until the right time came along.”

“He – uh, he didn’t want to make you wait for him.”

Bitty smiles down at him.

“I know that. I wouldn’t have held on if I didn’t think it was worth it.”

“ _Bits_.”

Bittle’s smile deepens, and his eyes flutter closed. “I do love when you call me that.”

So Jack says it again. “Bits.” He kisses the corner of Bittle’s mouth, because he has permission. “Bits,” he murmurs once more, and kisses Bittle’s cheek, properly this time. The final one, he breathes into Bittle’s ear – “Bits, I love you” – and Bittle shivers, and whispers “I love you, too.”

 

Jack kisses the shell of his ear softly, nuzzles into the soft hair at his temple, and Bittle hums, happy and small.

“It’s only going to get colder, now. I should get us a blanket. And more cocoa. And… the rest of the pie.”

Jack chuckles, but doesn’t let go of him just yet.

“What do you need me to do?”

Bittle leans back, and tracks his eyes over Jack’s face, like he’s actually considering options.

“Keep being warm. Talk to me. Hold me close, like before. And don’t think too hard before you kiss me.” He slides from Jack’s lap, trailing away slowly and calling over his shoulder as he pads to the kitchen. “And let me open my Christmas present early.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, feel free to comment and/or share
> 
> ❤ (ɔˆз(ˆ⌣ˆc)


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